Jerry's dinner was not, for some reason, quite the success he had
anticipated.

Nan made no complaint of the cooking, but she ate next to nothing, to the
grief of his hospitable soul. She was tired, of course, but there was
something in her manner that he could not fathom. She was silent and
unresponsive. There was almost an air of tragedy about her that made her
so unfamiliar that he felt as if he were entertaining a stranger. He did
not like the change. His old domineering, impetuous playfellow was
infinitely easier to understand. He did not feel at ease with this quiet,
white-faced woman, who treated him with such wholly unaccustomed
courtesy.

"I say," he said, when the meal was ended, "let's go upstairs and have a
smoke. I can clear away after you have gone to bed. Or do you want to go
to bed now? It's nearly nine, so you may if you like."

"I shouldn't sleep if I did," she said with a shiver. "No; I will help
you wash up, and then we will go upstairs and have some music."

Jerry fell in eagerly with this idea. He loved his banjo. He demurred a
little at accepting her assistance in the kitchen, but finally yielded,
for she would not be refused. She seemed to dread the thought of
solitude.

When they went upstairs at length, she made a great effort to shake off
her depression. She even sang a little to one or two of Jerry's melodies,
but her customary high spirits remained conspicuously absent, and after a
while Jerry became impatient, and laid the instrument down.

"Oh, Jerry, don't be vexed, though you've a perfect right. I've made a
ghastly, a perfectly hideous mistake. I--I can't think how I ever came to
do it. But--but I wouldn't mind so frightfully if it weren't for you.
That's what troubles me most--to have made a horrible mess of my life,
and to have dragged you into it." Her voice shook, and she broke off for
a moment, biting her lips. Then: "Oh, Jerry," she wailed, "I've done a
dreadful thing--a dreadful thing! Don't you see it--what he will think of
me--how he will despise me?"

The last words came muffled through her hands. Her head was bowed against
the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly, and drew near the bowed
figure.

"But, my dear girl," he said, laying a slightly hesitating hand upon her
shoulder, "what the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely you
don't--you can't care--care the toss of a half-penny?"

"I do, Jerry, I do!" she whispered vehemently. "He's horrid--oh, he's
horrid. But I can't help caring. I wanted him to think the very worst
possible of me before I came. But now--but now--Then too, there's you,"
she ended irrelevantly. "What could they do to you, Jerry? Could they put
you in prison?"

"Great Scott, no!" said Jerry. "You needn't cry over me. I always manage
to fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn't a hanging matter. I say, cheer
up, Nan, old girl! Don't you think you'd better go to bed? No? Well, let
me play you something cheerful, then. I've never seen you in the dumps
before. And I don't like it. I quite thought this would be one of our
red-letter days. Look up, I say! I believe you're crying."

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his voice that she raised
her head and smiled to reassure him.

"You're very, very good to me, Jerry," she said earnestly. "And oh, I do
hope I haven't got you into trouble!"

"Don't you worry your head about me," said Jerry cheerfully. "You're
tired out, you know. You really ought to go to bed. Let's have something
rousing, with a chorus, and then we'll say good-night."

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary into the gay
strains of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine to be feigned, and,
lest lack of response should again damp his spirits, she forced herself
to join in the refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry's fingers, faster
and faster ran the song, his voice and Nan's mingling, till at last he
broke off with a shout of laughter, and sprang to his feet.

"There! That's the end of our soiree, and I'm not going to keep you up a
minute longer. I wonder if we're snowed up yet. We'll have some fun
to-morrow, if we are. I say, look at the time! Good-night! Good-night!"

He advanced towards her. She was standing facing him, with her back to
the fire. But something--something in her eyes--arrested him, sending his
own glancing backwards over his shoulder. She was looking, not at him,
but beyond him.

The next instant, with a sharp oath, Jerry had wheeled in his tracks. He,
too, stood facing the door, staring wide-eyed, dumbfounded.

There, at the head of the stairs, quite motionless, quite silent, facing
them both, stood Piet Cradock.